


Unwanted Attention

by alyxpoe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 11:41:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When all else fails, examine the evidence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Another trip to the A&E

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to ACD and the BBC. Lydia, however, I'll take the blame for her.

It was just another ordinary day at the A&E. A constant flux of humanity passing through the front doors, with some passing right through to rooms, while others were quietly moved downstairs.  
At least their suffering was quiet, thought Lydia. She gazed around the room with half-lidded eyes, waiting and watching for something more interesting than a broken arm or dislocated wrist. God, these days just seemed to drag on and on. She eyed the clock on the wall and huffed. Only six and she had at least four hours before her shift would end. Was it wrong that she would be considering the end of her shift directly at the beginning of it? Of course, she could stand here and smile and look interested and think about tonight. Hmm. Tonight would be a different thing altogether, she thought as she expertly tightened the muscles on her left arm under her lab coat. Lydia looked around, glad no one had noticed that small twitch. But then, they hardly ever did. Even when she was walking into work earlier, she had felt someone moving quickly past her when the blade was out. She even felt the pull on her wrist as it cut, but then the person was gone and the blade retracted. In her mind, she laughed silently at the fool who would feel her wrath without even being aware. Lydia started to turn back to the nurses' station but just at that second, two men came through the swinging doors into the waiting room. They were arguing. Loudly.  
The shorter man was clutching his arm with the opposite hand and he looked incredibly angry, despite the blood dripping to the tile. The taller man was carefully leading them through the waiting area, a strange mix of panic and concern on his amazing features. Lydia stepped closer so she could hear their words, wondering what type of relationship this was. Though the taller, dark haired and obviously younger man seemed to be the leader, he kept his head bent toward the younger man as in deference. Well, at least this was better than boredom, Lydia stopped as they walked toward her.  
“Dammit, I can take care of this myself. It's just a scratch. I want to go home.” The blonde man attempted to pull away from the taller man's grip.  
“No John, I've no idea what was on the blade of that knife, and I'd really not take the chance of losing you...” the dark-headed man growled.  
"Well, if I didn't have t sprint after you come hell or high water when _you_ hare off after a suspect, I could have stopped at the time!" John growled back. Lydia stepped closer to them, pushing her hands deep down into the pockets of her lab coat, _ah ha._ They both froze and looked at Lydia. The shorter man had to look up, but the taller man was looking her straight in the eye. She had to suppress a shudder. Suddenly, all the noise in the room was blocked out. No one else mattered. The world had shrank down to just his eyes. He was looking at her as if he knew everything about her in that split second. She met his eyes and somewhere deep in the back of her mind the other voice silenced itself. She shook herself mentally, accepting that this could be the new challenge she was desperately needing.  
“Sirs, if I could be of assistance?” She asked them, pointedly ignoring the taller man for the shorter one. He looked up at her, his ice-blue eyes giving her yet another shock. He seemed almost embarrassed to be there. “Hi, I'm John.” He started to hold out his hand, but as soon as his grip loosened from the injured arm, he almost swayed. The taller man, with a movement faster than light, suddenly had his long arm around John's waist, supporting him. He gazed down at John's face and noted the slight greenish tinge under the fading tan.  
“If we could move this along before he hits the floor?” He hissed at Lydia. She guessed that she was supposed to appear taken aback, but her first reaction was one of annoyance.  
That threw him off, just a little, she could see it, only for a split second. But he was not going to ease up, at least not where John was concerned. He stepped a little closer to Lydia without letting go of John, pushing into her personal bubble. Enough was enough. She stepped aside to lead them back to a room. 

They settled, John on the bed and tall, dark and handsome standing next to him. It seemed as if the taller man would refuse to let go of John. Lydia found this deeply amusing, as it said so much about them that she wondered if they were even aware of the vibes they were giving off. She knew she had breached hospital protocol by leading them back herself, without even consulting any paperwork, but this was just too interesting and she was impatient.  
John removed his leather jacket and his shirts, the top layer of which was a soft gray jumper. The dark-haired man (whose name neither of them had actually spoken) carefully folded each shirt. As soon as each was completed, his hand was back to touching John somewhere—either his shoulder or grasping the hand of the uninjured arm. It almost appeared to want to settle on John's blond hair a couple times of its own violation. It all happened so quickly that Lydia knew most people would have missed it. Inside her head, the other voice chuckled.  
“Ok, let me take a look.” John held out his arm. There was a long, thin slice down the outside of his forearm, from wrist to shoulder. She had seen this type of wound before, but there was no way she was telling these two about it. The voice down deep in her mind gave a little chuckle. She ignored it as she carefully tended the wound. 

Lydia watched the two men exit the hospital from upstairs. She stared out the window, her mind working like a well-oiled machine. Even though he refused to tell her who he was, she knew that her time had finally come to tango with the crime-solving mastermind that was Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Words that start with the letter L

“There is something wrong about that Dr. Champlain, Jawnnnn...” Sherlock drawled out as he paced the sitting room floor. The fire crackled behind him and he could just hear the slight complaining from the old wooden floorboards as Sherlock's bare feet hit them. It was like a metronome and John was seriously fighting falling asleep in his armchair.  
His arm was only slightly burning now and he wanted desperately to give in to the pain meds and just close his eyes for a while. The mugger had been taken down quickly enough by Sherlock, who as always, seemed to do everything at once: take the man with the long, thin knife down to the ground while at the same time wrestling the knife out of his hand; asking John if he was okay and simultaneously phoning Lestrade on his mobile. Once again, John was left wondering if Sherlock really was an alien from another planet or perhaps he grew more arms in times of stress...John's mind wandered to a far distant planet where all the members of the ancient race were tall and thin with shocks of black, curly hair and whose pale skin almost felt like warm crushed velvet when...maybe he could fly today. That weird alien could be his copilot and they would just zoooommmmm.......

“JOHN!”  
“John John John John!”

Opening one eye, John stared at his lover. His brain felt like mush and he just wanted to sleep. On an ordinary day, he could keep up with Sherlock, but today he just wanted to rest. Sherlock had stopped his incessant pacing and was staring down at John, concerned. Nibbling his bottom lip. 

“John, are you sure that slice isn't itching or burning more than normal?”

John tried very hard to look him in the eyes. Now that he thought about it, this was a pretty strange reaction to normal pain meds. He didn't feel floaty or high, just...strange. He tried to shrug and then a fleeting thought when it occurred to him that he had not even _taken_ any pain meds. Did he even get the prescription filled? He started to open his mouth and it was the last thing he remembered until morning. 

\-----------

A feeling of lightness. And then warmth. A touch about his forehead. Wet?  
Wet? What?  
Fighting the heavy feeling of his limbs, John reached up and rubbed his eyes with hands that felt like lead balloons. What the hell?  
He snapped open his eyes to see his flatmate staring intently back at him. The dampness was a cool cloth on his forehead. As always, it was a mix of amazement and wonder that Sherlock was capable of such soothing that John looked back at him. 

“Sherlock what happened?” His mouth felt like he had swallowed one of his wool jumpers.  
“John, I think there was some sort of drug on the knife blade that went through your arm. It ruined your jumper, but that is probably what kept you from getting the full dose. I took the jumper down to Molly to test it, but since there is no way to know exactly what it was, the test may not prove anything.”  
John thought about that. Sherlock was right, of course, he always was.  
“Why did it not take effect until after we came home?”  
“I cannot answer that one yet. That woman doctor who stitched you up did not seem to think it was anything other than a deep scratch, and we did not actually tell her it was a knife, did we?”  
“No I guess we didn't. I remember feeling a bit light-headed at the hospital, but I figured it was just from the adrenaline rush and the idea of being injured....again.” He snickered.  
Sherlock gave him a serious look. “What is it?”  
“There's been more of them. Very similar to your wound, but they are in the morgue.”  
“What?”  
“John, I'm not sure, but this is starting to look more serious than a mugging. Was anything taken from you? I checked for your wallet and keys and it appeared nothing was missing. Your mobile was still in your jacket pocket.”  
“Any idea what they were after, then?”  
It would be decades before John would again hear the words that were just on the tip of Sherlock's tongue ( _I don't know_ ) but he could hear them loud and clear through the lip-biting shrug of his lover.  
“It's a strange one.”  
He knew that Sherlock was biting back a smile. There was nothing that he loved more than a case that was strange and full of bodies brought down by unknown forces. But when John was in danger, it changed everything.  
\----------

Quietly having breakfast in the kitchen and reading the newspaper, John's mind was also busy. As he chewed and skimmed the headlines, his own mind was cataloging the reactions of many drugs. Without realizing it, he was sorting through files in his own mental library, looking for exactly what, he was not yet sure.  
He laid the paper down on the table and contemplated his tea mug. He needed a slow-reacting drug that possibly was strong enough to put someone in a coma. Why coma? He wondered to himself. Because of the heaviness of his own limbs and the mushy sensation of his brain. Sherlock had very clearly and concisely outlined exactly John's own reaction to whatever had been on the edge of that knife. The detective was down at the morgue at the moment, trying even harder (probably driving Molly up the wall) to find some proof that the other two bodies had been dosed with the same thing.  
John had to admit to the difficulties of testing for a drug without knowing exactly what it's chemical back bone would be. He stood up from his chair and reached for his laptop. The stitches in his arm pulled slightly, but the wound seemed to be healing cleanly. He had to admit to being slightly impressed with the small, tight sutures made by Dr. Champlain. He had noted that her name started with an “L” but at the moment it hardly mattered. He had a strange feeling they would be seeing her again.


	3. All Kinds of Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I warned you about violence. If you can't take it, please stop here. Thanks!

This was troubling.  
Very troubling indeed.  
There was simply _too much_ blood. The stuff was everywhere. The floor was running with red rivers, it dripped down the walls. It shouldn’t have been like this, but he had fought like a snake. She sighed and tossed back the long blonde hair of the wig she was wearing, at the same time throwing the heavy rubber mallet into the corner.  
“Damn.”  
She wasn’t sorry he was dead, though he had been really good looking—tall with neatly trimmed hair, brown eyes, and that little goatee on his chin. Of course, he had no idea that’s what had finally drove her to finish the job. That damn prissy little beard on his chin. That fussy little patch of hair that looked as if his pubes had just jumped up on his chin and were waving hello. She flew into a rage and just grabbed the first thing handy, but this was not the way she usually worked. Not at all. How would she ever get it all cleaned up before the farm hands starting arriving at daybreak?  
The body was the easy part. The hole was already dug in the back forty, the hay wagon standing outside at the ready, pulled by a pair of massive Suffolk horses who were so old they could barely hear and barely see. They didn’t know and never told.  
Well, she had to do something. She couldn’t just stand her in a slowly congealing puddle of gore and destroy her red leather hooker heels. She looked down at them—not a spot of blood on her peep toes. How was that even possible?  
Lydia looked down at the young man’s mutilated face. It was really too bad he had fought back. Usually the drug took effect and just made them sleepy and numb. But _no_ , he decided that a little hanky panky in the barn would be fun. She let him get to where he thought he was going to score, but that damn little beard just stood out like blood on snow.  
Slow and dumb, it was the best way, and she could carefully listen to the great voice and carve like a master. But no, she had to get a healthy one that wanted to fight. Usually the job was completed in a short, neat, amount of time and she would be satisfied for a while longer. She would go home and take a long bath and remember the sight of his eyes when he realized that the first blow had not been an accident. The tingling was already starting in her feet and the back of her neck…just to lay back and give in would be so wonderful…No. Not now. There was work to be done.  
She sighed again.  
It was going to be a long night. 

\----------  
Lydia stormed through the front door of her flat. It had cost her everything in the attempt to cover up what she had done. In the end, she had just set the whole place on fire and hoped it would burn hot and long enough to at least cause the Yard some problems. Of course, they were all so dumb that they were never going to connect this type of crime to an A&E doctor.

She stood stock still after hanging up her long coat. Somehow she had managed to keep any red spatters off of its vanilla coloring. Though she had not turned any lights on and it was almost midmorning (she did not have a shift at the hospital today and so would not be missed) she could feel the darkness overtaking her mind from somewhere near the base of her skull. It was almost like a hot flash, starting at the back of her head and slowly warming up her entire body. She rubbed her hands down the front of her leather dress and knew it was time to let the voice have what it wanted. She closed her eyes and reached up under the hem and rubbed herself viciously, feeling the wetness of her own labia on her fingers. She never wore panties under these outfits--it was so much easier to capture the stupid men this way.  
Lydia sank down on her knees and proceeded to finger herself off right there in the floor. Anyone coming up to the door would have heard her swearing and incoherently admitting to a vicious murder. 

 

\----------  
Sherlock let the front door bang as he dramatically bounced up the stairs on the balls of his feet. John turned away from the sauce he was stirring on the stove to watch his best friend enter the room. He could see from the other man's face that the search for the strange drug was getting to be quite tedious. It had been a week since John himself had recovered from the physical effects of the drug and he was becoming more curious by the day as well. He turned back to the stove and switched the burner so that the sauce would simmer slowly and reached to stir the noodles.  
Sherlock slowly moved to stand just behind John, putting his long, lean-muscled arms around his lover's waist as the shorter man was cooking. It was a small movement that might not mean anything to a passerby, but John knew it was the detective's way of stabilizing himself when his mind was whirling like a chopper that had been blown out of the sky. John patted his arms and Sherlock stepped back a pace and moved to the table. He plonked his skinny butt into a chair and smiled. "John I think I am actually hungry tonight."  
John chuckled under his breath and dished out noodles and sauce onto a plate. He handed it over to Sherlock, who was busying himself with buttering a slice of homemade bread. The bread was courtesy Mrs Hudson. He fixed his own plate and then set across the table from Sherlock. The men ate in companionable silence for a moment and Sherlock began telling John about his and Molly's attempts to track down the drug in question.  
Sherlock's mobile buzzed against the wooden tabletop. He scowled down at it as if it had personally intended on interrupting his narrative. Still chewing and holding his fork in the air as if to dive in for more, John pointedly looked down at the little machine. Sherlock flipped it over and snorted. "It's Lestrade." He clicked a button with his index finger and quickly read the text. Without warning, he jumped up from the table, meal forgotten. John reached over and grabbed the phone.  
 _There's been another one._  
John tossed his fork down and headed to grab his coat, he vaguely heard a tinny sound as it hit the floor. Neither man spoke as they rushed out to call a cab. 

 

\----------  
As always, DI Lestrade's desk was literally covered with an avalanche of paperwork. Case files, schedule requests, and various other forms of not-entertainment took up almost every inch of workspace, even the top of the computer monitor. John was just a mere second behind Sherlock as they marched into the office. The tension was so tight in the cramped room the John was sure he could cut it with a knife.  
Greg stood up as the two men entered the door. "Whoever did this started a fire in an attempt to cover up the murder. There is no body, but the fire was put out in time to discover a virtual blood bath."  
Sherlock's questioning glance was answered by the DI: "Yes, we are on our way out there now, are you riding with me?"  
"You know I don't ride in police cars..."  
The Inspector cut him off "No, it's mine. I want to get you out there quickly."  
Sherlock just nodded and the three men made it to the front door in mere seconds.


	4. Mycroft's delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood, barns, batterings. And some gore.  
> You were warned.

The crime scene was a desolate, now-burned barn out in the country. There was so much mud, Sherlock had no hope of ever being able to discern individual footprints in the muck. John watched his lover closely as the tall man flitted in and out of the two big doorways of the barn. He could clearly see the frustration on Sherlock's face. The fire brigade had done a fine job stopping the fire after it had merely burned the front wall to a crisp and somehow managed to preserve the blood-spattered crime scene _inside_ the barn, but it was impossible to note any particular comings and goings among the tromped up mud. There was not much that Sherlock could complain to Lestrade about as far as the crime scene was concerned, because it was really out of Lestrade's jurisdiction. He had been called on to assist the night before, and was only bringing Sherlock in because it seemed that the whole thing would interest the younger man. He knew (and was still annoyed with the idea) that Lestrade didn't control every police force in the area.  
Sherlock was actually standing still, gazing at the blood that was pretty much everywhere. There was even some sprayed on the rafters above. He looked toward John and without saying a word, John nodded and walked into the barn. Sherlock pointed to the floor where a massive rubber-headed mallet lay. Obviously the murder weapon. Again, John nodded, noting the placement of the mallet alongside one of the largest puddles of blood. Sherlock placed a hand on John's shoulder and the doctor stepped back with the slight pull. Sherlock pointed at the floor. Just on the outside of one single puddle was a strange triangular-shaped print. There was something familiar about it, but John couldn't place it. He looked back to Sherlock and shrugged lightly. Sherlock's gaze seemed to be taking in the print and then moving inward, cataloging the details. John snapped a picture of it with his phone, just in case.  
The two men turned together and headed towards the police cars and yellow tape when Sherlock's head snapped around. At the same moment, John saw the little door, too.  
\----------

John trotted up the stairs and opened the front door. Shrugging out of his coat, he hung it up while toeing off his boots. It had been a long, boring shift at the surgery. Nothing much at this time of year but colds and the occasional bout of tonsillitis. He was glad flu season was almost over.  
He walked to the kitchen but stopped halfway, staring at the top of a rumpled mass of hair bent over a large, gaudy book. “Sherlock, what are you reading?”  
Sherlock seemed to uncoil all of his long limbs like a snake waking up from a nap. “Book on serial killers.” He answered with a smirk.  
John looked at the cover of the hardback in Sherlock's hands. It was pretty hideous, all bright red and black colours with black and white photographs of what he assumed were “infamous serial killers” according to the title. “Wow, the Americans are sure into this stuff, heh?" He leaned down and placed a soft, chaste kiss right on Sherlock's mouth.  
Sherlock looked amused and did not immediately answer. He just start spouting facts about the killers, how the majority of them were white males aged 20-45, came from all types of families and income brackets, so forth and so on until John's head was buzzing and he completed his journey to the kitchen for tea. He could still hear Sherlock going on with his statistics in the sitting room when something stood out like a neon light.  
“Hold up, hold up!” He almost shouted to his friend. Sherlock froze with his hands waving in midair and the whole thing would have been comical, except that John's epiphanies were really something the detective took to heart.  
“What you just say about _female_ serial killers, Sherlock? Can you repeat that?”  
Sherlock held John's gaze for just a moment, it was almost as if he was backing up in time. “There have been less than twenty modern female serial killers, the most famous was an American woman named Eileen Wuernos.”  
“Sherlock, was she sexually motivated like the majority of those men whose names you just listed out to me?”  
“There are several theories about her, but no one seems to absolutely agree. Some of these _experts_ ” (and here the snarky tone was evident) “...think it's possible that she was, though others seem to think she just enjoyed killing. At least one man thinks she was killing these men because they reminded him of her father or stepfather. She was only finally caught when she murdered a policeman.”  
“What are you thinking, Sherlock?”  
“Believe it or not, I am really not sure yet. Remember that strange print in the blood?”  
John nodded his agreement.  
“I think it was a high-heeled shoe, size 6.”  
John was slightly taken aback. This was something he had not even considered in all the times that they had discussed just who the killer might be. “Ok.” He said quietly.  
At that point, there was a knock at the front door. Before either of them could move to open it, they could hear footsteps on the staircase. One look back at Sherlock's flaring nostrils and sudden angry look allowed John half a second to realize it was Mycroft.

“Hullo boys.” Mycroft gave them a wicked grin. “I know you have been working on a strange case, or several, with Lestrade, but I have something here you need to see. Laptop, please?”  
John looked at the little disc Mycroft held up in the air like a prize. His head swiveled between the sudden appearance of his lover's brother and that little disc that looked like a miniature DVD. He did not know what it was, but reached over and grabbed his laptop anyway, handing it over to Mycroft.  
“This was recorded at the A&E yesterday evening. I am fairly certain that it applies to your current case.”  
“No,” said John, “Sherlock is working two cases. The bodies in the morgue with the cuts on their arms and the blood-spattered barn case.” That might not be too bad a title on the blog, he thought to himself.  
“No.” Mycroft said simply, sliding the disc into the laptop. They all watched as a view of the doors of the A&E opened wide for several paramedics with a stretcher to come through. There was a vague shape under a sheet and an orange blanket in view. John looked over to Sherlock who he knew had noticed the blanket, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and John turned back to the monitor.  
The vague shape on the stretcher seemed to be twisting and turning as if in agony. As the stretcher was passed directly under the camera, the shape turned toward them. Where there should have been a face was a bloody pulp, with an open hole and tongue, screaming in agony. One eye hung down on the ruined cheek, but the other one seemed to be seeing quite clearly. Strangely, there was clearly mud all over the person. If John didn't know any better, he would have sworn the person had to have just pulled itself right out of a trench. They watched as the doctor that had stitched up the wound on John's arm was holding her hands out to the male? Female? It was certainly hard to tell, but the figure on the stretcher seemed to be attempting to move as far away from Dr. Champlain as it could get. It seemed like she was just trying to help the victim. John couldn't keep his eyes off of the ruined face. Before he even had time to connect the dots consciously, his sub-conscious seemed linked with Sherlocks and at the same time they both stated "Rubber mallet." Mycroft did not even flinch.  
John was horrified.  
Sherlock was entranced.  
Mycroft spotted the details before either of them did and pushed the pause button.  
The three of them just stared at each other and then Sherlock and John looked back to the screen.  
The victim had a long scratch on his arm, from wrist to shoulder.  
Just like the bodies in the morgue.  
Just like John's.  
The cases _were_ related. John could almost feel the rumble inside Sherlock's mind, like a tidal wave destroying the coast. Suddenly, there were pieces falling into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for my sister, if you are still with it thus far. I thank you.  
> Also-please note that UK shoe size 6 is US size 8.


	5. Merciless

Lydia was pissed.  
She paced the floor of her flat becoming angrier with each passing moment. He should have been dead! She pushed her hands through her hair, dragging her own fingernails across her scalp. How could he still be alive? Now some damned cop or detective was going to put the wounds together. She knew she should have gone back to check, but she had wasted so much time on him already, she was sure he was dead.  
Well, he wasn't dead when they brought him in last night, but he sure as hell was now. Even with the screaming, no one seemed to recognize that the horribly mutilated victim was attempting to point out his attacker. Nope, the idiots all focused way too much on the mutilation. The knife wound was almost ignored. Almost. She worked fast, though, pressing just a little too hard on the wound to send the drugs spiraling into the man's bloodstream. She was angry and she knew that his last sight (out of one eye) was most certainly her own face. He knew what she had done, but continued that horrible sound until there simply was no breath left in his body.  
Lydia stood stock still for just a moment, then suddenly stripped off her white lab coat and tossed it over the back of the blood-red leather couch. Well, at least no one would ever believe of dear sweet Dr. Champlain. She started laughing and was almost hysterical before she dropped down on the couch and closed her eyes. The nagging voice had not been quiet today, not at all. Even while she attempted to cure people, it had gone on and on throughout her entire shift. Finally shutting up about the time her latest victim came in, it was almost snarling now.  
 _Stupid bitch._ It said to her in a heavy masculine voice. It was laced with nasty sarcasm and undisguised hatred. _I gave you the perfect opportunity and you fucking blew it!_  
Lydia started to cry. Real, hot tears streamed down her face, causing her mascara to run in charcoal rivulets down her face. She had to make this pain go away. There was nothing else for it but to find another victim. Soon. It was the only way to make the need and want go away.  
These stupid foolish men. They deserved what they got. She had been neither appalled nor horrified by the wreck she had made of Little Pube Patch Boy. It was his fault for being so damned easy to pick. And pick up. And then the fool got in the car with her, didn't even question that she pulled up to a barn! Typical. They didn't care where or who they got a leg over, as long as they got off. Didn't matter where.  
And that brought her back to wondering how in the hell he survived. Lydia sat up and wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. She had skimmed through the chart and the history of this victim. He had a name, she knew it at the time, but then completely discarded it. He was no longer anything to her. Just another pearl on an expensive necklace. Some dumb ass of a fucking Samaritan had found the idiot just after he had managed to crawl out of his makeshift grave. The nag grumbled in the back of her mind. She could ignore it, for now. Of course she had not filled it in properly. Of course she knew she would never be strong enough to bash a man's skull in with a rubber mallet. Even though the sound of bones breaking shot hot slivers of need through her spine, Lydia knew it had not been enough. She would have been better off using the old rusty axe or just shooting him. But that was sooooo duullll. She sighed, a weary sound of someone with so much work to do. Damn. Damn. Damn.  
Next time she would do better, she promised herself. She made up her mind that she needed to check what had been cooking in the refrigerator. It was time to up the dose. That's the only way Pube Boy would have been able to survive. She had mixed it wrong last time and needed to start fresh.


	6. Maneater

Time was passing oh so slowly. Lydia stood at the bar and watched everything male that walked in the door. She was starting to sweat, just lightly, under her leather dress. Maybe enough to send some pheromones out into the male population. At least the straight ones, anyway. She rested the hand holding her cocktail on the bar and the other one on her hip. With one foot on the rail under the bar, this should have been easy advertising. But somehow, no one was biting at the bait.  
She shook her head slightly, making the big silver hoops in her ears tingle slightly. For now the voice was quiet, but earlier she had listed to it berate her and call her a slut. Just like he used to...  
Lydia was not going to think about those things right now. She was still feeling burned out from the last one, _the one you botched, missy_ and really wasn't physically ready to do it again so soon. But if she failed again...she even skirted the idea in her mind about what the consequences would be.  
Finally! She turned her head towards the front door and caught the eye of a young man...who happened to have a fine goatee. The voice on the other side of her consciousness almost shrieked in glee. Tonight might not be a failure after all. 

\-----

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, pouring over his notes. His neck was bent so much that his forehead almost touched the tabletop. John scooted around the detective's chair and headed for the stove. He opened the fridge and made a soft gagging sound.  
“Sherlock, where did you get that arm?”  
A bored sigh. “John, you know I need to figure out just precisely how that drug works, right?”  
John nodded but his eyes flickered from the top of Sherlock's head back to the refrigerator. He could clearly see the wound that had been cut down the dorsal side of the limb. It stood out bright red against the grey color of the flesh.  
“But, really, don't you think the victims' families are going to notice that one of them is missing a limb?”  
“John, that is from a donated cadaver. Really? You think I would just hack off the arm of an _identfied_ victim?”  
John let that pass unanswered. It was probably better that way, seriously. “I'm going to order takeout.”  
A few minutes later, John was back. This time Sherlock had no choice but to actually look up at the other man, as John stood so close by the taller man's shoulder that he practically forced his way into Sherlock's bubble.  
Grey-green eyes met icy blue ones. “John, go ahead and ask me. But I shall tell you, alright? Yes, I, I mean Molly and I, were able to isolate some of the chemicals involved in this compound. It's pretty ingenious really. Slows the heart-rate and even in apparently some of the victims, it even leads to a cathartic, almost coma-like result. Apparently, they do not feel what is happening to them.”  
“What about that poor sod in the A &E?”  
“Well, he is the reason I said 'some of the victims' John.”  
“What made him different?”  
“At this point, I haven't yet made up my mind. I've some ideas, but I need more data. We are going to go and check out his flat tonight, if you have no other plans.”  
Well, I _did_ have other plans and they involved some hot water and clean sheets...thought John. Sherlock's eyes flickered and he could clearly see that the other man read his thoughts loud and clear. John shock his head, trying hard to ignore the burning gaze. Now was certainly not the time. “Yes. Yes, ok. Sherlock, I think that is a great idea.” _But not the BEST idea._

 

\-----  
The man had his hand on Lydia's ass. He did not even ask for permission, merely just laid it there as if the one drink he had purchased was some sort of unspoken deal, and now he could just touch her as he saw fit. Lydia made up her mind to start with that hand. 

They walked out of the pub into the darkening streets. Lydia allowed him to keep his hand on her, but it was she who actually led them. She wound her way deeper into the city, stopping with her back against a brick wall in a deserted alley. She pulled him in close to her and let him kiss her deeply, while she flicked her wrist to push out the blade hidden under the long sleeve of the leather dress. She gave him a few moments to ensure a raging hard-on, and then slowly moved her hand to the wrist wrapped around her waist. Quickly, she pulled the arm out from around her body and sank the blade in deep. She pulled the little knife up the backside of his arm and all the way to the shoulder, at the same time kneeing him hard in the crotch. He fell to the ground with a grunt. Lydia rolled him over with her foot and pressed down hard on the arm she had just sliced.  
Seemed like this one was going to go much easier, she thought. She had allowed the man six pints before pushing him out the door. Once he felt that she had nothing on under the dress at all, he was hooked. She watched as his eyes started to glaze over. No argument, no struggle. Fool.  
She knew that the drugs had taken effect on his system and carefully brought the little blade into play. There was no screaming as she started slicing the hand that he had so casually draped across her backside, but she could still see enough of him in his eyes to know he was watching.  
But wasn't this the best part? They get to watch her hands work, the knife blade dance in whatever light was available to them. This was the punishment for being an idiot, for only thinking with your penis! She could feel the all-too-familiar anger welling up from the backside of her mind.  
Suddenly, the calm cutting was not enough and she began to slash at the man who was laid out flat beneath her. Her motions became hurried, frantic. Since his heartbeat had been slowed so much, there was very little blood. She completely ignored what was there and she just kept sticking him with the blade, over and over again.  
Her motions began to slow as her body rocked with an orgasm. It started at the base of her spine and shoved its way up her back and into the back of her brain. She stood, shaking, but in control enough to wipe the knife on the outside of her victim's clothing. She worked her jaw and spat a nasty stream of mucus right near the tiniest bloodstain. It was all he was worth. Lydia carefully replaced the blade on her wrist, pulling the sleeve of her dress back down to cover it. She pulled the hem of the leather garment back down over her hips and thighs, as it had ridden up baring all in her moment of passion.  
She shook her head. All was quiet. Since there had been no screams, no one would be alerted until at least morning. She knew she had been carried away this time, but the voice was quiet. She looked down once again at the man, his face not quite serene but completely still, a bloody patch on his chin where she had cut the goatee out of his skin.  
Lydia turned on her stiletto heel and headed home. 

\-----  
Several hours later, they were at the crime scene looking over the body of Jerry Carter, age 33. Once again, nothing had been taken from the body. There wasn't much blood to be concerned with, but Sherlock was almost bent double at the waist peering down at a tiny puddle of the stuff. Naturally, Lestrade's team had missed it. Naturally.  
“John. John, John.”  
Lestrade rolled his eyes in John's direction from where the DI was standing watching the proceedings. John stepped up to his tall friend and waited.  
“John, did you save the picture on your mobile?” Sherlock did not even have to explain which one he wanted. John pulled the device out of his pocket and flicked through a couple of frames. “Here.” He said, handing it to the detective.  
Sherlock knelt down and sat John's phone on the ground next to the blood spatter. John watched, fascinated, as always, as his eyes began to pick up an almost identical shape to the tiny triangle in the picture on his phone. For a second, no one made a sound. Then their eyes met and John knew that they had something. This put the perpetrator of this crime at the scene of the barn fire. They had already linked the mutilated face in hospital with the blood at that crime scene.  
This then, was another connection. Sherlock's body almost quivered with elation. John was thoughtful. Lestrade didn't believe it at first, but after listening to Sherlock carry on about how he did not believe in coincidence, he finally came around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it isn't obvious, I do not have a beta nor a brit-picker. So please, if anything is way too far off, drop me a line. I take complete responsibility for my own mistakes.


	7. Occam's Razor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sort of an interlude.

Sherlock paced the floor, his hands in his hair. The sight of his bony hips moving under his dressing gown reminded John so much of horses' muscles during steeplechase. He almost had to sit on his hands in order to stop from reaching out and just grabbing a fist full, but was stopped by the anger emanating from his lover was almost thick enough to cut with a knife. John knew that Sherlock was only ever this angry when he was missing something, and this felt like something _big._

Stopping Sherlock's progress to give the taller man a pat on the shoulder or a peck on the mouth would be a huge mistake. These were the times when John even wondered if his flatmate was aware that he existed. It had been so long since he had seen Sherlock this angry...not since a few nights after he had reappeared into the world. 

But John didn't want to think about that just now.  
Right now he wanted to watch the mad genius pace holes through the frayed carpet. He wanted to help, but at this point was beyond his depth. He dragged his laptop from the coffee table and opened a clean word document. He started a list of the things they already knew about this case:

1\. at least four bodies now, with the same injury (not including that poor mutilated bastard)  
2\. a new? Or composite drug involved that no one had seen before  
3\. the shoe prints that Sherlock had identified as being stiletto heels, UK size 6, women's

And that brought John right back to what he wanted to say to Sherlock. The idea that after everything else had been examined, whatever was left over, no matter how ridiculous or far-fetched, was the obvious answer was staring him right in the face. That razor blade that had sliced through his own arm sure didn't belong to anyone named Occam—but hell, maybe it was possible.  
John looked up from his laptop. “Sherlock.”  
Sherlock actually stopped pacing. John would never understand how that one word could intervene Sherlock's manic pacing, but it did.  
“Is it even plausible that this could be a woman?”  
Sherlock did not answer, but rather _plopped_ down on the sofa in a huff. His eyes seemed to glaze over as he steepled his fingers under his chin. For long minutes, he didn't move. His breathing had even seemed to slow down. John went to the kitchen and milled around making himself a sandwich. It was always so nice when Mrs. Hudson brought her leftovers up to their fridge. He was in the middle of slicing a nice juicy piece of roast when he heard Sherlock's gasp.  
Sherlock was standing in the doorway almost before John could react. Then there were hands around his head and his flatmate had him in a binding lip-lock. John's brain tried valiantly to fight, it tried hard to fly south...but then...  
“John! You did it again! You have been paying attention and you are right!” Sherlock's grey eyes twinkled and for some reason a picture of Pallas Athena danced through John's poor testosterone-pickled brain. He merely nodded. OK.  
“Now I just have to find out _who_ she is. She is going to be someone who could move through the city without being noticed. She has some skill with a knife, but seems to be still learning. Every single one of those wounds was different, depth-wise. The first one was relatively shallow—the first one was yours! John! Yours!” With that statement, Sherlock was off and pacing again, his voice and hands weaving music through the air. John finished making his meal and decided to sit down at the table and enjoy the show. Even the cracking of the beer bottle top didn't make Sherlock pause. He chewed and watched.  
“Have we come across this woman?” For a moment John feared that Sherlock was talking about The Woman, but somehow this did not seem to be her style.  
“I am sure we have, John. Think! Think! Where have we been in the past few weeks where we have come across a woman who seemed unassuming but maybe I felt there was something more underneath....”  
The sudden silence made John wonder if Sherlock simply had walked out of the flat. He walked around the table to see where the taller man had gone. He was standing in front of the big window, his violin bow in his hand, but no violin. He was holding the bow in the air as if dissecting an animal on a lab table, using it to draw lines in the air. John realized that it was ridiculous that he could almost _see_ those lines, but hey, living with Sherlock would make anyone see tracers without actually being stoned, yes?  
He knew he had a few moments, at least, before the next wave would crash over the flat, trapping all normal thought and movement in its wake. Good. It would give him a little time to think while he tidied up a bit. 

\-----  
Lydia clocked in at the A&E with her time card the way she did every evening at this time. Her soft-soled shoes made soft susses on the clean tiles. She washed her hands and checked her hair in the mirror. No proof that anything untoward had ever happened the night before: she was the picture of the sweet healer. _HA! Nothing farther from the truth is there, little bitch?_ She looked into her own eyes and watched her eyelids narrow. There was no time for this now.  
 _Just what do you think you are going to see? Someone who cares so much for their fellow man? HA!_  
She struggled just a little against the voice, and somehow managed to put it away for the evening. She had to stay balanced and relatively normal. She had to not make any more mistakes, though she was certain the only mistakes she had made were letting that first imbecile get away from her. 

\-----

“JAWN!” Sherlock bellowed from the living room. John was lying across their made bed, his arms under his head, simply resting. He looked at the watch he was still wearing: twenty minutes. Must be a new record. He had been waiting ever since he had finished the dishes. He sat up and palmed his eyes, it was going to be a long night, but as always Sherlock said “danger” and John's answer was “Oh god yes!”  
Sherlock paced around him as he tied his trainers, almost bouncing around John like a little kid on a sugar high. One could almost feel the “come on come on come on” radiating off of the detective like a beacon. John smiled up at his lover and they were on their way in four minutes flat.


	8. Sometimes You Win

D.I. Lestrade is leaning back in his chair with his black-booted feet resting on the desk. One hand in resting on the arm of the chair and in the other hand is a glass filled with bourbon. It's well past quitting time, but he is once again faced with the natural force that is Sherlock Holmes. He gave a heavy sigh and just watched Sherlock's face, barely taking in a word the man was saying. Sherlock's hands were waving about and his mouth was running what seemed to be faster than the speed of light to Greg's exhausted eyes and mind.

Sherlock knew when he lost the DI. Lestrade's eyes were heavy and he hadn't moved in quite some time. For a second, Sherlock just froze. He looked to the chair beside him and his eyes met John's. John patted one of Sherlock's hands that had simply frozen on the desktop. 

The three men sat that way for long minutes, until Lestrade finished his bourbon in one gulp and made to stand up, swinging his boots off the desk. He knew he was going to give into the younger man, he always did. 

“Fine. Sherlock if this is what you really want to do, you can do it. I don't have to tell you that this is one dangerous person. So you are going with backup whether you like it or not.”

Sherlock almost growled. Lestrade held out a hand towards his shoulder as if to grip it. Instead, he just waved the hand and told the consulting detective that it was not going to be any backup from the Met. 

“My brother, I assume?”

“Yes, Sherlock, your brother.” He said with a hint of annoyance. “It is the only way that we, I mean, I can keep the two of you safe. All of the evidence you have presented to me makes absolute sense. I will not argue with that, _but,_ and this is a big one, I am not sure that it's enough evidence to be going forward with. 

If this killer is who and what you believe _she_ is, then catching her isn't going to be easy. You have presented me with four other cases from as many years that absolutely bare a striking resemblance to the ones we have currently. No way I can argue with that.” He reached under his desk and plonked the bourbon bottle on the work top. He unscrewed the cap and poured more into his glass. The bottle went back under the desk and the bourbon took its sweet time to burn down his throat before he spoke again. 

Sherlock was 95% positive that the killer in this cases was female, and that she was a prostitute working somewhere central to where all the bodies had been found. He had tacked a large map up over the sofa in the sitting room at Baker Street and preceded to tack red yarn from points where the bodies had ultimately been found. He was fairly certain that the men had been picked up at one of three different pubs, and Lestrade knew that Sherlock's “fairly certains” usually turned out to be “pretty accurate.”

Sherlock nodded and swept out of the office, Dr. Watson on his heels. 

\-----  
John watched his lover from across the pub. Sherlock had his lean frame clad in the tightest possible denim jeans, tight button-down (untucked and open three buttons down) and high black boots. John was torn between fearing for his life and wanting to jump his bones right there. This was the second pub that had been in that night, but it seemed that they were getting no where. He did not turn his head, but he could almost feel the security that the two of them had been assigned for the evening. Secretly, John was more than happy to have a little extra muscle about. He did not like to admit it to himself, but he wasn't about to lose Sherlock again, at least not like this.   
He watched Sherlock as Sherlock leaned against the bar. Unfortunately, he wasn't really projecting “hetro” as much as he was projecting “available.” He almost laughed. It had been an hour and he was almost tired of waiting. He stood up and pushed his chair in. Only slightly moving his head toward the tall god at the bar, he turned on his heel and pushed the door to the washroom open. He stepped inside and counted to ten, by the time he was on nine, Sherlock had stepped behind the door. 

The taller man sighed dramatically. “I'm missing something.”  
John fought the urge to yank that smirking face down toward his own and give up on all this tonight. But, they were _on a case_ and he had to keep his mind with it, so he just put his arms on his lover's hips and waited calmly. Somehow the feel of danger in his arms and the Browning against his back made everything alright, for the moment anyway. 

“We have done everything. There is just one more place tonight.”  
“John, did you notice the red-headed woman in the leather dress?”  
“Yeah, I saw her come in but she did not really ring any bells.”  
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “You did not notice that she was in the first pub, then?”  
John was slightly taken aback. He went back in his mind over the females he had noticed. Different dress, same red color, but—blonde hair. “Blonde wig?”  
Sherlock grinned down at him. He then reached into John's jacket pocket and pulled out a small envelope. “I've got one more thing up my sleeve. Can you meet me outside?”  
John really did not want to get separated, but he wanted this over tonight. He nodded the affirmative and then headed towards the front door. 

\----  
Lydia was out hunting. She had been in two pubs so far with no luck. It had only been ten days, but she was already feeling the burning need. The voice had been nagging her for hours, but it seemed that every man she had seen just wasn't _right_. She noticed that tall man with the boots at the first pub, then the second one. She knew who he was and was trying to avoid him. She had changed wigs and her dress, but was willing to play this game a little longer. It was better than being berated for not finding a suitable playmate for the evening.   
She watched the man saunter across the pub to the washrooms. At least he was making things interesting. 

\-----  
John almost had a heart-attack right there on the pavement when Sherlock stepped out the door. He didn't even look like the same person who had been in the washroom not three minutes ago. His hair had been slicked back (with water John presumed) and his shirt was buttoned all the way up, color standing stiffly around his neck. He had tucked the shirt into his overly tight pants (and John was trying damn hard to stay professional here). The tall boots were gone, replaced with Sherlock's own posh footwear (where in the hell had they been stashed?) But, the most fetching thing was the little black mustache and goatee that had seemed to sprout from his face in seconds.   
Sherlock wore his best boyish grin. John couldn't help but smile back. This was ludicrous and he knew it. As he stared at his lover's face in rapt attention, it suddenly occurred to him that every single one of the victims had facial hair. Even that man in the hospital on the video that Mycroft had shown them. Naturally, it had not been apparent then, but Molly had done the post-mortem. Once the man's face had been cleaned as much as possible, there was a strange gap on his chin that had turned out to be where a (real) goatee had been literally yanked off of his face.   
_Oh god._  
As always, Sherlock had jumped to the conclusion before anyone else. “Brilliant.”   
Sherlock tossed his head like a colt ready to run. He knew he was beautiful and brilliant, but he just basked in John's compliments. “Are you ready, John?”  
Before he answered, John tilted his head just slightly to the side. He could just make out the man standing in the shadows about ten paces from where they stood. He looked up to meet his lover's eyes and winked. 

\-----  
Lydia had not bothered to change her dress this time, but had changed into a black, bobbed wig. This pub was her absolute favorite as it seemed all the young men in London came through here at least once on the weekends. She could blend in with the crowd. She sipped her cocktail and scanned the bodies milling about. Somewhat unconsciously, she moved her fingers on her left hand into a slight fist, calmly feeling the weight of the blade in its strap on her wrist. She was using her newest batch of poison and was feeling confident.   
She noticed the tall man with the goatee as soon as the heavy wooden door opened. There was something familiar about him, but she was sure that Sherlock had given up for the night. _Just one more thing that proves he's been losing his edge, eh?_ Lydia couldn't help but agree. She tracked the newcomer with her eyes. He moved with a confidence and she tried to guess what he did for a living, just to pass the time. When he was comfortably seated, she sashayed over to him and laid a hand on his arm, smiling into his face. 

 

\----  
Sherlock was tingling. As soon as the woman laid her hand on his arm he knew that the trap was sprung. He carefully studied her face and then gave the impression he was giving her the once-over. Naturally, he knew immediately who she was, but he did not give anything away. Somehow, a slight look of amusement and surprised passed quickly over his features. He was slightly taken aback that this was a doctor, but such things did not remain in his mind long. There was too much to do.   
He knew how this might end, but hoped that his preparations (as always) were enough. If anything else, at least Mycroft's men were surrounding the place. There was no way to get a signal to John, but he knew that his lover would be watching him with hawk eyes.  
He placed his hand on top of hers and gave a slight squeeze. 

\----  
John counted the steps as Sherlock walked in front of him with the dark-haired woman in the red leather dress. He hung back into the shadows the best he could and worked hard to keep from running ahead and just grabbing that woman away from Sherlock. His instincts were in absolute disarray tonight and his body was almost vibrating.   
The couple in front of him turned a corner and John raised his hand in the air. There was some slight movement behind and to the side of him. He turned the corner and saw the flash of light almost before it happened.   
The woman had her hand resting on Sherlock's hip. She gave a strange little flick of her wrist and John could clearly see the tiny blade. Just as quickly she ran her hand down Sherlock's arm and the tall man winced slightly. John remembered clearly that way that blade felt—like a bee sting. At that point, he was running toward the two figures, watching the tall one fall to the ground. Somehow the woman was so intent on what she was doing that she completely missed the sounds of multiple pairs of running feet heading her way.  
When John reached them, she was standing bent over with one red stilletto pressed against Sherlock's arm. She seemed to be putting pressure on the fresh wound and he could see her moth moving, but could not quite hear what she was saying to the prone figure underneath her foot. Somehow, he could still see the blade in her hand and it was headed towards Sherlock's face. John pulled the gun from the waistband of his pants and yelled “Freeze!”   
Time stood still.


	9. Girls Love Shoes

Sherlock felt the blade zing his arm. He knew full well what was coming and tried to go as boneless as possible when he hit the pavement. (Not like it was the first time.) He did not expect, however, the savage hatred that burned across the face of the woman standing bent over him. The pressure from her shoe was like a blinding heat. He could already feel the numbness starting in his arm. It was spreading down the side of his body and into his legs.   
The woman was moving her lips as if talking to someone, but she was making no sounds. Interesting. He knew he had to keep her focused on him so he attempted to pull his arm out from underneath her foot. No good. “Stop struggling, fool. Don't think you are going to be like the other one and get away from me. You are mine.” When she finally spoke, her voice was thick with hatred and lust. Sherlock just stared at her as he felt the heat spread from his legs up to his waist.   
It was then that several things happened simultaneously: He saw the little blade head towards his face but was completely incapable of moving his other hand to push it away; he felt the slight pressure of the air as she pushed it towards his skin, and then he heard a stern masculine voice yell “Freeze.”  
And so naturally, he passed out cold. 

\----  
Lydia screeched like a banshee and turned toward the voice that was outside of her head. The inside voice told her to run, but she was so far gone at this point her body would not respond.   
She turned towards the shorter man holding the gun. A sound escaped her lips that sounded so much like an angry cobra. She recognized him from before. He had just been walking by her at the moment she flicked her wrist to make sure the blade had been set right. Men. They are all such stupid fools. Lydia ran towards John Watson and he did not move but spread his feet farther apart and kept the Browning trained on her as the world exploded into bright light. 

\----  
Of course, like it always happens, everything happened at once. Suddenly, there were lights from above and the steady sound of whomp-whomp of helicopter blades. Then the air was full of voices, someone yelling at Lydia, whom John knew now was the Dr. Champlain, the woman who had stitched up his arm. A wound that had been caused by the same little blade that was headed his direction. It was almost like slow-motion: Lydia hissing between her teeth and launching herself toward him and then the figure on the ground reaching up and grabbing at her feet. She fell, mid-screech, onto the pavement.   
And directly onto the blade in her hand.   
Then there were men and women in uniforms running everywhere and John saw nothing except for Sherlock lying on the ground.   
He bolted to Sherlock and dropped to his knees. He ran his fingers down the side of Sherlock's neck and felt for a pulse. It was weak, but steady. Sherlock's eyes were open and following John's every single movement. John knew that the drug had taken effect, but was hoping that their antidote was going to be enough to fight off the worst of it. Sherlock's gaze flickered down to his hands as he slowly raised the hand holding a red stilletto. John's smile was brighter than the lights from the helicopter above their heads. He put his hand under Sherlock's head as the man on the ground went completely under. 

\-----  
“Dammit Mycroft!”  
John could hear the bellowing down the hallway of the hospital. Sherlock was awake then.   
Appearing much calmer than he felt, John carefully opened the door. Sherlock was sitting up on the bed staring at his older brother. Of course, Mycroft had to come and gloat. Just behind Mycroft's right shoulder stood Lestrade. Both of them were looking at Sherlock as if he had grown another head.   
Well, somethings never really did change, did they? Apparently, they had been summing up the entire case and naturally, Sherlock told them they were wrong. About fifty times.  
“Gentlemen!” John cleared his throat while he handed a cup of coffee to Sherlock.   
“John, can you please make him listen to reason?” John shook his head at Greg. “Greg, taking his blood now is pointless. The antidote, like the compound we designed it to combat, it already gone. He probably urinated it out two hours ago.”  
Greg snorted and Mycroft stared down his nose at John. “Mycroft, trust me, no one will be getting the chemical recipe to make that compound again. The only other person besides Sherlock and I who knew what was in it is now in a straight jacket. And I don't think she's going to be telling her secrets any time soon.”  
Well, that was the absolute truth. Mycroft tried hard last night to get John to hand over Sherlock's notes on the compound, worried that the drug would fall into the wrong hands. He was right enough to worry, it was nasty stuff, but at the moment, it made no difference. Lydia was in custody and presumably would stay that way and he and Sherlock sure weren't going to spread it around.   
“Bored John. When do we get to go home?”  
As always, John was amazed at how quickly Sherlock could go from out cold to, well, whatever was his normal state. “As soon as your doctor comes in and releases you, shouldn't be long.” Sherlock snorted but didn't say anything else. He was actually much more tired than he let on, but he preferred to sleep in his own bed curled up next to his doctor.   
Mycroft and Greg turned to leave. Always, though, Holmes brothers had to have the last word. “Sherlock,” he drawled out stiffly, “Just how did you know you had the right woman?” He really needed Greg to hear this, though he had already pegged it.   
“Her shoes.”  
Greg stopped mid-stride and turned toward the consulting detective. Without waiting for the question, Sherlock answered it “Size 6 UK, red leather stilettos, brand name irrelevant. When she walked away from me the first time, I could see a tiny spot of blood on the toe. She wrongly assumed I was studying her posterior, though I assure you that was hardly the case. Have you had them tested yet? At least one of those blood drops will match the man who came in here alive and that will match what was found at the barn. Remember that I told you they always make a mistake? Well, hers was the obsession with that pair of heels. She never changed them when she changed everything else. Except when she was here working.”  
Greg nodded and turned on his heel without saying anything else. Though the case seemed to be over and the suspect in custody, he still had mountains of paperwork to sift through. Mycroft swiftly followed the DI, but not before he saw John step closer to Sherlock and lean into a tight, heavy snog. Mycroft sighed softly. His brother was in good hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading through this! I'd love to hear what you think.

**Author's Note:**

> I have most of this written out, and I'd love to post it all. Let me know what you think!  
> 11 March 2013, edited a couple of things in Chapter 1.


End file.
